


Interlude

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 300-word interlude between In The Dark and I Fall To Pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Nawssir, I reckon not.

Sweat.  
  
Pheromones.  
  
Alcohol.   
  
There are breathless, wordless cries of pleasure as their wiry bodies writhe and clash. He clenches, momentarily holds his partner’s cock in tight, warmer-than-human heat.  
  
Soft, spiky hair, made to be stroked and tugged on, so he does.  
  
Milk-pale skin, made to be touched and marked, so he does.  
  
 _Your eyes are so -  
  
Your skin is so -  
  
You taste so -  
  
You make me _feel -  
  
But they can’t say these things.  
  
His partner can’t say them because he’s a man of few words. A man with a recently-broken heart.  
  
 _He_  can’t say them because he feels them for one who depends upon him in ways that aren’t nearly personal enough.   
  
Neither of them have hearts left to give. They’ve already been given in service of and promise to others. Others who perhaps don’t deserve such steadfastness, but have it, nonetheless. And they.  
  
Can’t.  
  
Say  _these_  things to each other. So they say  _other_  things in other  _ways_. They praise and worship each other with calculated thrusts and welcoming warmth.  
  
 _Praise_  is his tongue tracing every twitching muscle, laving comfort into it.  
  
 _Worship_  is his partner catching every drop of sweat, letting it tang and tingle on his tongue.  
  
This night in L.A. is a chorus of compliments in moans and sighs.   
  
This night in L.A. passes sweetly.  
  
At dawn, they awaken refreshed and hard. At noon, they part with fond kisses and  _thank you_ s. They might never see each other again.  
  
The ancient van lumbers away, bound for Anywhere.  
  
“Fare thee safely and well, my little Bam-bam,” Doyle says softly, just before a migraine-with-pictures makes him crumple to the sidewalk.  
  



End file.
